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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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KATIE 



By henry TIMROD 




^Thc Mill khird^ from a ncighhorijig' thorn. 
With music brims tlic cup of morn. ' 



NEW YORK 
E. J. HALE & SON 

1084 



JAN \^ !C!!5 

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76 



1/ "1 



COIYRKJHT, IJ72, 

3y E. J. HALE fc SON„ 



Press of J, J. Litlle & Co., 
Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New Ycik. 



KATIE, 



It may be through some foreign grace, 

And unfamiHar charm of face ; 

It may be that across the foam 

Which bore her from her childhood's home. 

By some strange spell, my Katie brought, 

Along with English creeds and thought — 

Entancrled In her crolden hair- 

Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! 

I cannot tell — but here to-day, 

A thousand billowy leagues away 

From that orreen isle whose twillLrht skies 

No darker are than Katie's eyes. 

She seems to me, go where she will, 

An Eno^lish o-irl in EnMand still ! 

o o o 



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"And, as to do her grace, me up 
The priinross and the buttercup.''' 



I meet her on the dusty street, 

And daisies spring about her feet ; 

Or, touched to Hfe beneath her tread, 

An English cowshp hfts its head ; 

And, as to do her grace, rise up 

The primrose and the buttercup ! 

I roam with her through fields of cane, 

And seem to stroll an English lane, 

Which, white with blossoms of the May, 

Spreads its green carpet in her way 

As fancy wills, the path beneath 

Is golden gorse, or purple heath : 

And now we hear in woodlands dim 

Their unarticulated hymn, 

Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, 

Now sink in mats of clover sweet, 

Or see before us from the lawn 

The lark go up to greet the dawn ! 

All birds that love the English sky 

Throng round my path when she is by : 




/ lifar—-Mitk chee/cs that Jlush and pul 
The passion of the nightingale.'^ 



The blackbird from a neipfhborlne thorn 
With music brims the cup of morn, 
And in a thick, melodious rain 
The mavis pours her mellow strain ! 
But only when my Katie's voice 
Makes all the listening- woods rejoice 
I hear — with cheeks that flush and pale- 
The passion of the nightingale ! 

Anon the pictures round her change. 
And through an ancient town we range. 
Whereto the shadowy memory clings 
Of one of England's Saxon kings. 
And which to shrine his fading fame 
Still keeps his ashes and his name. 
Quaint houses rise on either hand, 
But still the airs are fresh and bland 
As if their gentle wings caressed 
Some new-born village of the West. 
A moment by the Norman tower 
We pause ; it is the Sabbath hour ! 




''And siem to stroll an English lane" 







"A titoDient by the Norjiian towers 



And o'er the city sinks and swells 
The chime of old St. Mary's bells, 
Which still resound in Katie's ears 
As sweet as when in distant years 
She heard them peal with jocund din 
A merry English Christmas in ! 
We pass the abbey's ruined arch, 
And statelier grows my Katie's march, 
As round her, wearied with the taint 
Of Transatlantic pine and paint, 



And there each morning used to stop 
Before a wonder of a shop 
Where, built of apples and of pears, 
Rose pyramids of golden spheres ; 
While, dano;lincr in her dazzled sioht, 
Ripe cherries cast a crimson light, 
And made her think of elfin lamps. 
And feast and sport in fairy camps, 
Whereat, upon her royal throne 
(Most richly carved in cherry-stone), 
Titania ruled, in queenly state, 
The boisterous revels of the fete ! 
'Twas yonder, with their " horrid " noise, 
Dismissed from books, she met the boys, 
Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls, 
Glanced slightly at her sunny curls, 
And laughed and leaped as reckless by 
As though no pretty face were nigh ! 
But — here the maiden grows demure — - 
Indeed she's not so very sure. 



That in a year, or haply twain, 
Who looked e'er failed to look aeain, 
And sooth to say, I little doubt 
(Some azure day, the truth will out !) 
That certain baits in certain eyes 
Caught many an unsuspecting prize ; 
And somewhere underneath these eaves 
A budding flirt put forth its leaves ! 

Has not the sky a deeper blue, 
Have not the trees a greener hue, 
And bend they not with lordlier grace 
And nobler shapes above the place 
Where on one cloudless winter morn 
My Katie to this life was born ? 
Ah, folly ! long hath fled the hour 
When love to sight gave keener power, 
And lovers looked for special boons 
In brighter flowers and larger moons. 
But wave the foliage as it may. 
And let the sky be ashen gray, 




' . . . That spot may seetn 
As lovely as a poefs dream.'''' 



Thus much at least a manly youth 
May hold — and yet not blush — as truth ; 
If near that blessed spot of earth 
Which saw the cherished maiden's birth 
No softer dews than usual rise, 
And life there keeps its wonted guise, 
Yet not the less that spot may seem 
As lovely as a poet's dream ; 



And should a fervid faith incline 
To make thereof a sainted shrine, 
Who may deny that round us throng 
A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, 
But meaner far, which yet unblamed 
Stalk by us and are not ashamed ? 
So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll 
Ends at this portal, while you roll 
Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray 
That may recall some vanished day, 
I — let them jeer and laugh who will — 
Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill ! 
So strongly sometimes on the sense 
These fancies hold their influence, 
That in long well-known streets I stray 
Like one who fears to lose his way. 
The strancrer, I, the native, she, 
Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea ; 
And changing place, and mixing times, 
I walk in unfamiliar climes ! 



She sees a thousand tokens cast 

Of England's venerable Past ! 

Our reverent footstep lastly claims 

The younger chapel of St. James, 

Which, though, as English records run, 

Not old, had seen full many a sun, 

Ere to the cold December gale 

The thoughtful Pilgrim spread his sail. 

There Katie in her childish days 

Spelt out her prayers and lisped her praise, 

And doubtless, as her beauty grew, 

Did much as other maidens do — 

Across the pews and down the aisle 

Sent many a beau-bewildering smile, 

And to subserve her spirit's need 

Learned other things beside the creed ! 

There, too, to-day her knee she bows. 

And by her one whose darker brows 

Betray the Southern heart that burns 

Beside her, and which only turns 







4^ 's^T^f 



" There, too, to-day, her knee she bows.'''' 



Its thoughts to heaven in one request, 

Not all unworthy to be blest, 

But rising from an earthlier pain 

Than might beseem a Christian fane. 

Ah ! can the guileless maiden share 

The wish that lifts that passionate prayer? 

Is all at peace that breast within? 

Good angels ! warn her of the sin ! 

Alas ! what boots it ? who can save 

A willing victim of the wave ? 

Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt ? 

Or gather wine when wine is spilt ? 

We quit the holy house and gain 
The open air ; then, happy twain, 
Adown familiar streets we go. 
And now and then she turns to show. 
With fears that all is changing fast, 
Some spot that's sacred to her Past. 
Here by this way, through shadows cool, 
A little maid, she tripped to school ; 








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Here by this 7vay. through shadozus cool, 
A tittle r,iaid, she trz/>/>ed to school" 




'■'■And in the Broa i I hear the LarU 



These houses, free to every breeze 
That blows from warm Floridian seas, 
Assume a massive English air. 
And close around an English square ; 
While, if I issue from the town, 
An English hill looks greenly down, 
Or round me rolls an English park. 
And in the Broad I hear the Larke ! 
Thus when, where woodland violets hide. 
I rove with Katie at my side, 




■ In a youii^' land oj paltn and pitted 



It scarce would seem amiss to say : 
" Katie ! my home lies far away, 
Beyond the pathless waste of brine, 
In a young land of palm and pine ! 




There, by the tropic heats, the soul 
Is touched as if with livinor coal, 
And glows with such a fire as none 
Can feel beneath a Northern sun, 
Unless — my Katie's heart attest ! — 
'Tis kindled in an English breast ! 
Such is the land in which I live. 
And, Katie ! such the soul I give. 
Come! ere another morning beam. 
We'll cleave the sea with wingfs of steam 

o 



And soon, despite of storm or calm, 
Beneath my native groves of palm. 
Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, 
The Southron and his EnofHsh bride ! " 




V>'i\ji'f 



..LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




